


red snow, red snow, the world will never know

by meios



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Death, F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 20:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2746085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bull. I need to hit something."</p>
            </blockquote>





	red snow, red snow, the world will never know

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS!
> 
> allusions to cullen/lavellan romance, but focuses on iron bull and lavellan's friendship. death alert but no main characters.
> 
> i haven't been writing much, so. this is a thing.

The night is dark and the snow falls heavily, and the tavern door thumps harshly against the wall. There is a lull in noise, the bard going so far as to drop her instrument in surprise at the crack of wood; the Inquisitor does not blink, does not lift her head upon entering, the door squeaking back into its place.  
  
She takes silent steps. The music starts up again, hesitant in the air, falling like the snow.  
  
“Bull,” she says quietly, clear eyes wet, though her face is dry when she finally meets his questioning gaze. Her entire body is tense, the lithe frame jolting from pent up  _something_  or other. “I need to hit something.”  
  
The qunari rises at that, moving to rest a giant hand at her back, leading her back outside to the practice fields that Cassandra frequents. She is, thankfully, nowhere to be found, most likely receiving reports on the fallen—no. She will not think about this now. It is all she can think about and she  _will not think about it_.  
  
The moment that she is able to, she breaks away from Bull and slams a fist into the expressionless, hay-stuffed face of the nearest dummy. With a feral shout, she takes note of the static electricity gathering around her, attracting and repulsing the snowflakes in waves.  
  
They are dead.  
  
“Boss, what’s—?”  
  
“ _They are dead_!” yells the Inquisitor, and now her face falls. It is  _now_  that she relinquishes any of the self-discipline she had built up over the years and years of her education under her Keeper. And it is all for naught. Self-discipline did not save them.  
  
There is a hand at her back again and she does not want it there.  
  
She burns the Iron Bull without meaning to. He does not say a word. His hand simply retreats.  
  
Lavellan turns back to him, throwing another punch that she knows he will catch, teeth bared like the Dread Wolf would, and she screams again, wounded. They—and she does not know who  _they_  are in this context anymore—should put her down. She would ask Cullen if she did not already know his reaction: embracing her, whispered  _no_ s, a calming hand at her scalp.  
  
She is not angry with Josephine, no. The Antivan could not have known the outcome. No one could have. She is angry with the war. She is angry with herself. She is  _furious_  that she, the leader of the Inquisition, the Dalish elf that had reunited the rebel mages, the Herald of Andraste, could not save them.  
  
Her clan is dead.  
  
She does not want to be calm just yet.  
  
Lavellan throws more punches, each one captured by the solemn Iron Bull, lips pursed until she does not shirk away from his touch, her tiny fist enclosed inside his own. She is panting, breathless, face like bloodstone from the cold. Her cheeks are wet, cold. She does not remember when she had stopped crying.  
  
He beckons her closer, hugs her.  
  
“They are dead, Bull,” she whimpers, trembling, face pressed into the muscles that had protected her from many a blade, many a spell. Her bodyguard. Her protector on the field. “All—all dead.”  
  
A large hand on her head, moving down to rest against her back once more. Strong, protective. A promise.


End file.
